With his wife he was even more at ease. “The same old root of all evil, my dear,” he said with a dry laugh--“too much peach brandy, and this time down the wrong throats--and so in their joy they must celebrate by firing off pistols and wasting my good ammunition,” an explanation which completely satisfied the dear lady--peach brandy being capable of producing any calamity, great or small. But this would not do for Mrs. Cheston. She was a woman who could be trusted and who never, on any occasion, lost her nerve. He saw from the way she lifted her eyebrows in inquiry, instead of framing her question in words, that she fully realized the gravity of the situation. The colonel looked at her significantly, made excuse to step in front of her, his back to the room, and with his forefinger tapping his forehead, whispered: “Willits.” The old lady paled, but she did not change her expression. “And Harry?” she murmured in return. The colonel kept his eyes upon her, but he made no answer. A hard, cold look settled on his face--one she knew--one his negroes feared when he grew angry. Again she repeated Harry's name, this time in alarm: “Quick!--tell me--not killed?” “No--I wish to God he were!” CHAPTER VI The wounded man lay on a lounge in the office room, which was dimly lighted by the dying glow of the outside torches and an oil lamp hurriedly brought in. No one was present except St. George, Harry, the doctor, and a negro woman who had brought in some pillows and hot water. All that could be done for him had been done; he was unconscious and his life hung by a thread. Harry, now that the mysterious thing called his “honor” had been satisfied, was helping Teackle wash the wound prior to an attempt to probe for the ball.